


git.

by Icanwritesee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John's a bit not good until he isn't any longer, M/M, angst like whoa, fluff like woohoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 19:46:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4637952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icanwritesee/pseuds/Icanwritesee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>life without him was unbearable for he went away and took everything with him leaving John once again homeless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	git.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elessar_undomiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elessar_undomiel/gifts).



> first of all, this is angsty. like... really angsty. I needed to write Johnlock with some heavy angst that had a happy ending. so... there. I know it's nothing new, you can find a handful of after the Fall fics, I know. but I wanted to write just one more. 
> 
> I dedicate this one-shot to elessar_undomiel because she's a sweet human being and her fics are gifts to this fandom. seriously. if you don't already know her writing, drop that and go read them right now. you're very welcome. also, she gifted one of her beautiful pieces to me and I wanted to be square. hope you like this one, dear.

_one day someone is going to hug you so tight that all your broken pieces will stick back together._

_\- unknown._

 

 

John Watson was dead.

maybe not physically. physically he was even moderately healthy. when I say 'moderately', I mean that he slept, ate, went to work and came home every day. _more or less_. after the Fall all those daily activities became _less_ important and _more_ necessities, and John was very persistent in keeping them just that - things he absolutely _had_ to do every day to convince his friends he was eventually going to be okay. that he was over it. that he didn't see the Fall every time he closed his eyes like it was yesterday. under his eyelids, the Fall painted itself almost casually at this point. except for John it never was casual, and he thought it wouldn't be because he could _never get over Sher.._. not him. getting over would mean John _wanted_ to be fine, _normal_ , which he didn't. _obviously._ he shivered mentally just thinking about that. so he quickly stopped doing that. sleeping caused nightmares, so he started to drink more and more to become oblivious. eating was a bit of a problem at the beginning, but disappeared after few weeks. Harry noticed his exhaustion and did all she could to nag him to take more care of himself. so he simply did his best to make her believe he was doing just that, eating included. except he didn't. not as much as he needed, anyway.

his mentality, though, was a completely different pair of shoes. he quickly got used to pain burning all his insides, and soon found himself feeling _nothing_. it would be even good if it wasn't for the nightmares leaving him trembling with the sensation of ice-cold drops of sweat running down his back every night his body chose to actually get some rest.

he started to pretend he was okay because he didn't want others to worry about him. for them, he could be perfectly fine almost effortlessly. the worst was when Harry visited him, he hated her a little every time she did that because she, uncharacteristically for her, was pacing around him like he was fucking fragile. like he could break into pieces if she wasn't gentle with him. like he wasn't already broken enough beyond any repairing.  
  
Greg was... surprisingly tolerable to be around. he didn't ask any questions about Sher... the best part of their accidental friendship was that Greg (as any good copper) knew when to be silent. he also knew for sure John hated coddling, so he didn't give him that. Lestrade was one of the numerous reminders of Sher...'s life cut too soon, but for some reason John liked the shooting of pain that cop brought with himself every time they went to grab a pint. it actually helped him to realize life went on without him, which was oddly refreshing. Greg didn't make him feel guilty about not calling. not speaking. he took whatever John was ready to give, and never asked for more.  
  
Mike didn't say anything aloud, but his brows were always drawn together when John was in the room. Stamford also adopted the aura of worry and John was pretty sure that it was his only expression. and so he stopped calling. how could he blame him?

talking to Molly was something similar to Mike, but even that paled in compare to contacts with Mrs. Hudson. John loved her like she was his and Sher...'s mother. but his mother didn't have a clue who the detective actually was. she didn't know John was her only son, in fact. bloke called Alzheimer made sure of that. but the sound of her voice was too much for him to bear; she knew both of them, knew their morning routines and took care of them every time they weren't able to do that on their own. she realized how badly the Fall broke John long before he realized it himself. besides, she had this habit of _talking_ in a kitchen underneath their living room he and the tall one shared. when John came there to visit her some time about eight weeks after the Fall, he physically folded in half because he couldn't endure sharp pain that crossed his heart. just like that night when some nasty git threw a knife at him. actual wound was superficial and needed only a few stitches, but Sher... didn't take it very well. when he got to the man, he beat the shit out of him with fury John haven't ever seen him in. when they came back home, the lanky detective helped him up the stairs, cleaned his wound and even put the stitches by himself. they were awful, but John appreciated the effort anyway. she reminded him of all they had more than any of his other friends, and so he stopped calling her. which made him hate himself even more than he already did.

living at Baker Street after Sher... died became as possible as breathing without choking. for John Watson breathing proved to be tremendously ambitious task. therefore he moved out of the flat as soon as he could, finding another beige bedsit like he used to have when he returned to England after getting shot. he hated its meekness, yet he still proceeded to become more invisible every day. why shouldn't he? after all, nothing ever happened to him. not anymore, anyway.  
life without him was unbearable for he went away and took everything with him leaving John once again homeless. unfortunately, he wasn't able to do something with that - Greg confiscated his gun shortly before the funeral.  
  
early November brought ridiculous amount of men looking just like him. world was suddenly full of men wearing thick wooden coats going with cobalt scarves. and so he stopped going out because there's only too much times you can experience cardiac arrest during one day. John couldn't stand his own longing that made him see things that weren't really there. because all of a sudden he saw Sher... him. he was just standing there, in the middle of the crowd near Regent's Park. staring unblinkingly at John like he always did. it made him shiver every time, but for some reason shivering was pleasant - you don't commonly get someone's full attention directed at you. John swallowed, torn between wishing it was happening and wanting for it to disappear. he even pinched himself. when he opened his eyes, he could swear detective was there in person. and he made few steps to close the distance between them while John only kept blinking like an idiot. after that, he cocked his head as if he was saying 'you were going to do something?'. John snapped out of his reverie, nodding his own head because he was going to open his bedsit's door, so he did just that.   

his fantasy followed him inside - not very surprising. when he closed the door behind himself, John realized his spartan room was too small for both of them. in the next minute, he realized his throat's gone dry. and that he wasn't dreaming. that Sherlock was stuck beside bed he was sleeping in. that he was breathing the same air. that he was _alive_.  
thought alone made him a bit dizzy. but then he dove to do the only thing he was able to do at that moment: consume his beautifully shaped lips in a fierce kiss. everything after that was infinitely better.  
it took Sherlock a moment to respond. he tried to prepare himself for John's blows. for his shouts, insults and hurt. what he couldn't prepare for was John's _love_. his not-asking-for-forgiveness, strong love that reminded Sherlock of John himself. he moved his head just enough to get better access to sturdier doctor's mouth, and kissed back.

few hours later both of them were lying in John's bed with their legs tangled, still panting and trying to calm their racing hearts. John, on the verge of sleep, lied his head on his detective's chest. for the first time in his life, he felt complete and utter bliss spilling in his insides. he got his life back, and it was spreading warmth by his side, clinging to him as much as he clinged to it. his detective chose that exact moment to gently kiss his forehead and whisper something.  
\- I was lost without my blogger.  
\- git - he said, although without much heat in his voice.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading. take care!


End file.
